The Red Hood
by EAnna23je
Summary: Arya has made the trip from Winterfell to Castle Black countless times since the Long Night began. The last thing she expected was to lose her best friend and form a life debt with a skinchanger. Yet as the Wolf King leads her deep into the wilds, Arya has no choice but to trust the monster at her side.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **It has been seven years since Ned Stark was declared a traitor to the crown and sentenced to the Wall. Now Winter is here and creatures of legend have been stirring in the North. The Three-Eyed Crow told her mother to make Arya a red cloak to protect her on her journey to see Ned. The red hood will keep her safe, the trees whisper. But the long night is indeed dark, and the road north full of terrors. Forced to face the Others, Arya is convinced the cloak will be the death of her. Until the Wolf King and his pack save her life. The price the Wolf King demands for saving her life is high, however, and the bargain struck may cost Arya more than she is willing to give.

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**Disclaimer:** I only like posting these once, at the beginning. I didn't invent ASOIAF or Game of Thrones (that was George R.R. Martin and company). While my alternate universe may echo certain events, I am merely playing around with my favorite characters. Thus, I reserve the right to shamelessly play about with canon. ;)

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**THE RED HOOD**

**CHAPTER 1**

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"Do you have enough food?" Catelyn asked.

"Yes, mother," Arya evenly replied.

"Your furs look too light. Are you wearing enough layers?"

"If I add any more, I won't be able to fight." Arya tightened the saddle strap and secured the buckle.

Catelyn shifted on her feet. Snow peppered her flame wreathed hair as the older woman took in the quiet yard. She did not like it when Arya fought. "You don't have to go. Rickon is old enough…"

Arya snorted, interrupting, "Rickon is ten and still a baby. And I'll be fine."

Catelyn shivered and then reached behind her, untying the suspicious bundle she had brought when she ambushed Arya at the stables. "If you insist on completing this task alone, at least wear this."

Arya focused on steady, calming breaths as she turned and not-so-patiently waited for Catelyn's unveiling. The cloak was clearly a patchwork piece, borrowed scraps from old dresses she and Sansa had long outgrown. Before Winter began, White Harbor had brought in bolts of new cloth from the South. But this was before the Others were spotted south of the Wall, before the old tales sprung to life.

_Before Father took the black._

Arya couldn't help but gape at the fine silver-thread stitching, direwolf heads, and winter roses, carefully wrought by her mother's hand. "It's...red," she blurted. "I'll be a bloody target, wearing this out there." Still, she could not help reaching out to stroke the fabric with her fingerless gloves.

"Bran said," Catelyn paused for an unsteady breath, "it will keep you safe."

Arya shivered. They did not often speak of Bran, although her little brother sometimes spoke to them through the trees. Her mother had believed in the Seven before Winter came, before Bran fell from the tower and later ran away with the Reed siblings.

_Before he became the Three-Eyed Crow._

She had not seen Bran in seven years. Her vision blurred. The wind cut sharply across her cheeks, freezing her tears in place as it whispered, "_Sister._"

Arya shook her head as she brushed the tears aside, then finally met her mother's eyes. Tully eyes. Blue like the summer skies, like the sapphire ring that had been Sansa's betrothal gift.

_Calm as still water._

Catelyn did not shed any tears, not anymore. Her face was too grave and lined beyond her years. "Bran said they will not attack you as long as you wear this," her mother insisted.

Arya's sigh clung to the frozen air between them. Her horse, Snow shifted on his hoofs and twisted his dark head to peer curiously at the two Stark women, catching Arya's eye. It was difficult not to roll her eyes at her oldest friend, then. Instead, Arya nodded her assent. She turned as Catelyn helped bring the fur-lined hood over her head. The moment the heavy, layered fabric settled over her armored shoulders she felt warmer, wrapped in the scent of Summer.

"_Safe_," the winds promised with her brother's voice.

Her mother closed the clasp at Arya's neck, then settled her thin, yet strong hands on her shoulders. "Now, you listen to me." Blue eyes clouded like winter storms. "No fighting, not unless you have no other choice."

"But—" Arya's protest died as her mother's grip tightened like stone.

_Lady Stoneheart_, the smallfolk of Winterfell had begun to call her.

"No buts, Arya, I _will not_ lose you to any foolish sense of honor like we lost Robb." A flash of pain crumpled across her mother's worn features.

The loss of Robb to the War of the Five Kings had hurt the most. Arya never forgave the Lannisters for that.

_One day, I will kill the queen_, came the dark thought.

Arya covered her mother's hands and brought them to rest between them. They were not affectionate, not really. All affection had died in her mother with the loss of her husband, her two oldest sons… and Sansa. There was little left for baby Rickon.

_Still…_

"I'll be fine, just like I've been every time I visit Father," Arya said, willing strength and reassurance into her voice. She forced a smirk she did not feel, adding, "And just think how happy he'll be when he sees what you've sent him."

She didn't tell her mother how Ned had looked during her last visit, more silver than brown in his hair and beard. Or the haunted look in his dimmed gray eyes as he told her Uncle Benjen was still missing. Instead, she kept her smile until Catelyn crumpled in on herself and squeezed her hands in a cold grip.

"Keep your cloak on, no matter what happens. The wolves will protect you, Bran said." Catelyn's ominous words hung heavily between them. The lines about her blue eyes deepened as she whispered lastly, "Come home soon." No sooner were these words spoken, than her mother turned and retreated into the keep.

_To the Godswood, no doubt._

Rickon was often left with Maester Luwin or Uncle Brynden of late, as their mother retreated to speak with her dead son.

The air was still warm where Catelyn had been. Arya allowed her smile to fall then, allowed the old bitterness to creep back in with the guilt she felt every time she was forced to endure her mother's presence.

_Lady Stoneheart._

A shadow of who Catelyn Tully had been, an older reflection of the sister Arya hated.

Arya checked her saddlebags and her pack, the additional blades she had hidden on Snow's saddle. She climbed onto her horse's back and led him out the yard, past the open gates and onto the road leading north. The guards wasted no time quickly shutting the gates behind her. No one else bid her farewell. So many of the old guard had died protecting Father in King's Landing, and then helping to smuggle her out of the city. No, there were too few left.

This was why Catelyn eventually allowed her youngest daughter to brave the road in Winter alone. Besides Arya's natural affinity for survival, she knew the best places to hide, to hunt and to avoid. She was sixteen her last name day, and she was unafraid. After all, had not Aunt Lyanna disappeared into the wilds after Prince Rhaegar defiled her? No one ever found her, dead or alive. Arya liked to imagine her aunt was still out there, somewhere, even now.

Distant howls cut across the landscape, echoing through the Wolfswood. Arya shivered and gathered the edge of her cloak closer, praying Bran was right about this bloody red hood. The Long Night, as Old Nan called it was indeed dark, and the road north would be full of terrors.

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**Review: **Thank you for reading my little Jonrya fairytale AU, friends! This is a cross-post of my first ASOIAF fic from AO3. You can follow me there as well if you fancy. As you might have guessed, this story will stick somewhat to canon events, but with a few more magical alterations ;) Next chapter we will finally get to meet Jon!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Arya has donned the red cloak Catelyn made for her, to appease her mother more than obey the Three-Eyed-Crow. As Arya expected, the journey is made harder when she's wearing a target on her back. The last thing she expects is for the cloak to actually call forth her protectors. And the price for the Wolf King's aid is indeed high.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I only like posting these once, at the beginning. I didn't invent ASOIAF or Game of Thrones (that was George R.R. Martin and company). While my alternate universe may echo certain events, I am merely playing around with my favorite characters. Thus, I reserve the right to shamelessly play about with canon. ;)

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**THE RED HOOD**

**CHAPTER 2**

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The first time Arya had seen an Other, was on her third return journey from Castle Black.

_"You should not have come, wolfling,"_ her father had warned. _"The white winds have been howling. The old gods are on the move."_

Nothing Ned said could dissuade her, of course. She was his wolfling, after all. She had wolf's blood, like every true Stark. She was not afraid.

Until she saw the white walker. It had been alone on its mounted, undead steed. Arya had been hunting, for what little there was to be found. The forest was what alerted her first. Too silent. Then came the cold.

Not the cold she had felt as a child, like when she lost a bet to Bran and ran into the Summer snows naked. Not even the cold that came with snows piled up the walls of Winterfell, begging to come in. No, this was something deeper, the cold that crept through flesh and blood.

_Death_, she recognized. She had seen it before, after all.

The Other did not appear to see her that day, as it led its mount through the wood and disappeared into the oncoming storm. Arya had not seen any of its kind since, only the bloody undead.

She wondered if today her luck had changed.

"Fucking wights," she growled as she ducked, easily avoiding a clumsy swing. She sprung back up and held her sword side-face as she slipped behind her attacker.

This one might have been a wildling, once. Its clothes had long-since rotted to bare skins. Frozen flesh clung to its jaw and disjointed limbs. Its eyes gleamed with cold fire as it whirled around, faster than she expected. She barely caught its swing in her dagger's crossguard.

_Stupid, stupid!_

She wasted no more time, knocking the creature's sword aside.

Its raging screech made her bones ache. It took everything she had then, to fend off its blunted attacks.

_Slash!_ The impact vibrated up her arms and through her torso, but she swung true.

An arm fell to the snow and continued twitching.

Enraged, the wight ducked its head and barrelled forward, jaws snapping, one arm flailing.

A pained whinny met her ears and Arya's breath caught in her throat.

_Snow._

"Quick as a shadow," she breathed as she twirled and kicked the creature into the drift. No time to create another fire.

Arya's cloak billowed as she picked up her feet and ran back to the source of the screams. Sweat beaded and froze at her temples. Her gaze darted back and forth over the wood.

Only two nights into her journey and Arya was half convinced her mother had made up the story about the damned red cloak. Like Arya had predicted, it proved a beacon to every predator within two leagues. While she normally would not complain about having extra meat and furs to bring Castle Black, this slowed her progress.

A chorus of undead screeches broke her thoughts. Arya cursed and ran faster. Her hands trembled, but she kept her daggers close.

_Faster._

She broke into the clearing where she had made camp two hours before. The sight before her felt like a punch to her gut. Snow's head tossed and turned from his position on the ground, while the dead…

"No!" Arya screamed as she ran straight for her weakened fire. Barely any flames, plenty of hot coals.

One of the wights rose and ambled forward to meet her, axe hanging loosely in its dislocated arm.

Arya dropped to her knees, avoiding the first, stray blow. She dropped her daggers, trading the weapons for handfuls of coals. She threw the first handful at the first wight, relishing its cry.

Pulled from their kill, the others echoed their fallen brother's scream.

Arya threw the second handful of coals at the group, catching two on fire instantly. These wights scrambled blindly, helpless against the flames.

Four others staggered forward on stumped limbs and hissed at Arya.

She didn't feel the pain as she picked her daggers up, or notice the smell of her burned flesh. She kept her front to the advancing wights and sought desperately to hear Syrio Forel's voice in her head one last time.

_Tell me what to do!_

Syrio was silent.

Father was expecting her. If she did not show, a raven would be sent to Winterfell. More men would come searching. How many would die before discovering her corpse? What if the Others turned her into one of these creatures? How could anyone win against such a relentless foe? These weren't even the bloody Others and already Arya felt despair and defeat clinging to her conscience.

Snow stopped struggling. Crimson on white…

_Do not look at him!_

Snow had been a present from Robb.

_"I thought it time you had a proper horse, little sister,"_ he had said.

A deep throaty growl rose from the back of her throat at the memory, at what these—_monsters_—had done to her best friend.

_My only friend._

Sparks danced along the edges of her red cloak, as Arya ran to meet them head-on, "For Robb!" a cry at her lips. The cloak kicked up a cloud of ashes in her wake as she ducked beneath the first attack.

The wights were clumsy, but she was already tired and slipping on the bloody snow. She hissed the first time their rusted blades grazed her skin. A differed scream tore from her throat as the largest wight's axe grazed her thigh.

A roar answered her cry, a beastly rumbling against her ears.

The roar was echoed by smaller snarling barks and howls behind her, echoing in the darkness.

Arya lifted her arms in time to catch the next attack between both blades. The weight behind the wight's axe swing sent her to her knees. Before she could attempt to break free, a blur of snarling white fur bounded into the wight.

Arya fell back with a gasp.

The largest wolf she had ever seen—_direwolf_—ripped into the wight. They moved together in a dance of wild beauty and death. The beast made it look easy as it scattered the creature's limbs, then turned to tear into another.

Five more wolves appeared from the other side of camp, smaller and yet no less fierce as they dismembered the undead.

Heart still racing, Arya scrambled away until her back hit the trunk of a tree. Snow's motionless body rested on the edge of her periphery.

_Do not look at him._

Arya bit her lip before a sob could escape and focused on the fight.

In her distraction, the beasts had already finished. It was over too quickly, her mind raged. The punishment was not nearly severe enough, not for what these monsters had done. A jolt of pain shot through her hands as she squeezed her daggers.

The direwolf barked at the others. The smaller wolves bowed their heads in turn before backing away into the shadow beyond her fire.

_What in seven hells?_

Arya blinked as the white beast huffed, and then began to pick up pieces of wight in its jaws and toss them into the fire. The flames ate up the twitching remains almost eagerly, and the fire happily grew.

Arya slowly stood, leaning against the tree and watched the beast work. A faint hiss kissed her ears every time a new piece was added to the fire. She took first one step, then another. She wanted to see it, to watch them burn.

A flare of red at the corner of her eye turned her stomach afresh. Whatever madness had taken her was broken by the sight of blood on the snow at her feet.

_No, not blood. Leaves._

Above the branches of the weirwood tree stretched over her, as though reaching for the fire. Arya gasped as she turned to face it. She hadn't even noticed it while making camp. How had she missed it?

The bleeding face of the old god met her gaze and the leaves whispered, "_Sister. Safe_."

"Bran." Arya shuddered and squeezed her daggers briefly before placing them back in her sheaths. She gathered her cloak over her arms and hugged her chest as silent sobs pulled angry tears from her eyes.

Bran had told Mother the red hood would keep her safe. What had Catelyn said before she left?

_"The wolves will protect you."_

How had they known?

The leaves did not answer, though the air thickened with the weight of expectation. A pressing weight settled between her shoulder blades, compelling, demanding her attention. Arya turned and her heart seized in her throat.

The white direwolf sat on its haunches, not three feet from where she stood.

Arya sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth and battled the sudden urge to pull her daggers free again.

The direwolf cocked its head and continued to study her with an intensity that felt entirely too human. Here was the source of the weight she had felt.

Arya shivered again as she met the beast's haunting red gaze for the first time. A steadily churning heat grew within her then, building from her gut and spreading through her limbs. The last thing she expected was for the beast to close the distance between them.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords_, she inwardly chanted, as the direwolf ducked its head and sniffed at her feet. It's nose brushed and prodded at the red cloak as it stalked a slow circle around her. Its head rose as it came back around to face her and Arya was forced to look up.

She hated being short sometimes, but compared to this wolf she felt so small. Arya gasped as the beast suddenly pushed its nose at her neck and closed her eyes. She should have been afraid. Why wasn't she afraid?

She was sixteen, a woman grown and not ready to die. But something in the beast's manner… it didn't want to kill her.

_Snap!_ The crack and responding growl made her open her eyes. She blinked as the direwolf shuddered before her eyes.

_A trick of the firelight_, she thought at first.

Until the direwolf's visage rippled again and then grew with another pop.

The direwolf's shape continued to twist, snarls fading into the pained shout of a man. The air about the beast that had been a direwolf finally stilled, sharpened. Arya should have been running, instead, she couldn't help but stare in fascination.

It was a man standing in place of the wolf. A white fur cloak covered his shoulders and parted at his arms to reveal black armor beneath. His long black hair was tied behind his head and an equally black beard covered his face. Arya let her gaze roam over him, this creature from legend.

_Warg?_

She had heard all manner of tales from Old Nan. Men who could wear beast's skins, who lingered somewhere between both, untamed and unpredictable. Dangerous.

She wondered if the man's eyes were as red as his beastly form's.

The moment she finally met his heated gaze, the warg's nostrils flared, as though picking up her scent. His gaze flickered over her body as he took a step closer.

Arya shifted on the balls of her feet but refused to back down. She stood fixed upon his gaze, on studying his silver eyes, and the way the firelight reflected off them like beast's eyes. She was unprepared for the husky voice that passed his lips.

"Little girls like you should not wander these woods alone."

Arya's hold on her cloak tightened. "I'm not a little girl." Her voice cracked and the warg's eyebrows rose. Again, his eyes took in the measure of her and he took another step forward as if to emphasize their difference in heights.

Arya rolled her eyes. "Just because I'm short, doesn't make me too little, or helpless." Her voice wavered at the end as she recalled the sound of Snow's screams. Arya saw past the warg, to the moment she realized Snow had stopped moving. She bit her lip and blinked back fresh tears.

_Stupid._

Shaking her head, Arya focused on the warg.

His expression had turned darker, emotionless once more, though no less intense as he replied, "What would have happened, had I not saved your life?" His gaze flickered to her trembling arms, hidden by the red cloak.

"I can take care of—" she paused, catching his words, and the weight of expectation still hovering in their tiny corner of the wood. She bit her lip. "Thank you for saving me. You didn't have to. I-I know I am nothing to you. So...thanks." She paused, nearly prepared to offer the favor of House Stark like a bloody highborn fool.

He reached for the edge of her red cloak, stealing her words as he trailed bare fingers over the stitching. "I do not want your thanks."

It was difficult to breathe, then. "No? But I thought—"

"I want your promise." His hand fisted over the velvet fabric at the same moment his gaze settled over hers.

He was close, far too close. And he was warm, far warmer than she had expected.

He's a skinchanger, of course, he isn't what you'd expect, stupid.

Arya blinked, her mind struggling to catch up with his words. "Promise?"

"Aye. I have saved your life. By rights, it belongs to me now."

_Well..._

She gaped a moment, at the utter seriousness of his expression.

"People can't belong to people," she replied, but the argument sounded weak even to her. "I belong to no one but myself."

The warg tilted his head much like the wolf had, as though amused by her. "According to the old laws, you belong to me until your life debt is paid." He scowled and scanned the trees beyond them a moment. "It is dangerous to linger here. Come, we should…"

"Go to hell!" Arya threw her cloak back and pulled her daggers free. She wasted no time attacking. He had saved her life, but she'd be damned if she was caught in the clutches of a different monster.

His growl was her only warning before the warg surged forward. His grip at her wrists was painful, but Arya fought back.

"Let me go! Bastard!" His face was so near hers she wanted to trace the scars on his beautiful face with her blades.

He smiled at her struggle and pulled her up against him, twisting her in his arms until her back was pinned to his chest. He forced her to drop the daggers as his breath fanned against her bared neck. "I am not the monster you think I am, but I _will_ see my debt paid. And I will not leave you here for the Others to find you."

Gooseflesh rose against her skin and Arya's teeth clicked as she clenched her jaw. "You wasted your time saving my life, then. Because if you want me to come with you, you'll have to kill me first."

The warg turned his face against her neck until she could feel his cheeks tug into a smile. "Or I could just carry you."

Arya shrieked as she was thrown over the warg's shoulder. He did not pause to retrieve her daggers or her pack. Arya grasped at his fur cloak and tugged. "Wait, stop! Shit… I—I'll walk. Just let me grab my things first."

He set her back on her feet far more gently than she expected. She craned her neck to meet his curious gaze.

His words washed over her in a low rumble. "Will you swear an oath to the old gods, not to harm me or try to escape until your debt is paid?"

Arya dug her nails into her palms and the pain stole her breath and her anger. The stench of blood and burnt flesh stung her nose, but so near to him, she felt...better.

_"Safe,_" the weirwood whispered.

"What's your name? If I'm going to make a vow, I should at least know to who."

If he was surprised by her acceptance, he did not show it. "They call me the Wolf King."

Arya froze at the title, at the sudden, painful memory of Robb. "I don't care what _they_ call you. What is your name?"

Something softened about the hard edges of his face and she watched his lips twitch, then pull into a shadow of a smile as he replied, "Jon."

Arya bowed her head as his name passed his lips. Suddenly, he seemed more present, _real_. Not just a legend, the Wolf King, but a man.

_Jon._

She couldn't do this and look him in the eye. Arya sucked in a breath and willed a strength she did not feel into her words. "I swear by the old gods of my father and all his father's before him, I will not try to harm you, or escape until my debt is repaid."

With her words, sound rushed back into the forest. She had not noticed its absence until the crackling of the fire, the rustle of branches in the wind and Jon's unsteady breaths met her ears. Arya gaped and looked around, half expecting some outward change, some evidence of what she could not name. But then, she could.

_Magic._

She did not realize Jon had moved until he returned to her side, holding her daggers to her. The promise was there in the way he watched her sheathe her blades, and then as she retrieved the pack containing the letters she had meant to deliver. Would she see her father or mother, or baby Rickon again?

Jon met her before she could return to his side. Silent as a shadow he moved, suddenly before her, reaching past her shoulders to pull the hood of the red cloak over her head. His fingers brushed the fabric about her face in a caress, gaze darting across her features one last time, and then he turned his back to her and walked into the forest.

Arya hesitated another moment before following.

She did not look back.

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**Review: **If you fancy :) Next chapter, we'll learn more about why Jon is called the Wolf King, and what Arya plans to do about it.


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